


Portrait of a Dancer

by El Staplador (elstaplador)



Category: Sadler's Wells - Lorna Hill
Genre: Community: 52fandoms, Domestic, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:56:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elstaplador/pseuds/El%20Staplador
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A domestic scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Portrait of a Dancer

The light dwindled into a calm, clear evening, the sky pale blue and endless above the Northumbrian hills. Bracken, for once both inhabited and as peaceful as its surroundings, lay all but silent as the shadows lengthened. The air was becoming chilly, but they all three lingered outside, reluctant to move. Even Vicki was quiet, half-asleep on Sebastian's lap.

At last, Veronica broke the silence with a little sigh.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. 'A happy birthday?'

She smiled. 'Perfect. Thank you. I was just thinking that it's a pity it has to end.'

'There will be others,' Sebastian said, wickedly. 'Plenty of others.'

Veronica, too happy to be easily baited, only said, 'Here comes Trixie. It's time for bed, young Vicki.'

Vicki, condescending as a queen, presented her cheek to be kissed by both parents, before allowing Trixie to remove her to bed.

'How about you?' Sebastian asked, flopping, now that he was no longer presenting the role of _paterfamilias_ , from the chair to the grass. 'Ugh! it's damp!'

'Idiot!' Veronica said fondly. ' _What_ about me?'

'Bedtime?'

He winked, significantly, exaggeratedly, and she blushed.

'Almost. Only I need to finish something first.' She rose. 'Come on in. It's too cold to stay out here.'

He followed her into the house.

'I meant to finish this yesterday,' she murmured. She sat down in the elegant armchair that stood in the corner of the hall and picked up the satin-lined wicker basket that she called her 'work box', which was, Sebastian supposed, accurate enough; it only ever held tunics or tights or ballet shoes.

'On your birthday?' he protested, out of principle. He sprawled on the floor and sat watching her.

'And every day. I don't want to leave this until tomorrow; I ought to do an extra hour's practice as it is, to make up for today.' She drew a pale pink shoe, new and stiff, from the basket, threaded a needle with care, and began to darn a neat semi-circle of stitches into the toe.

Sebastian looked from the real Veronica, twenty-seven today, and the greatest dancer of her time, to the portrait that hung on the wall above her: a young Veronica, younger than any he had known. He laughed: the frown of concentration had hardly changed in sixteen years.

She looked up, amusement and irritation mingled in her face. 'What?'

He nodded at the painting. 'Portrait of a dancer. I shall have to ask Rosenbaum to do another one. We must move with the times, my dear! Speaking of which – the time is now half past nine, and that's almost a respectable time for respectable people like us to go to bed. How is your shoe?'

'Done.' Veronica finished off her last stitch and snipped the thread. 'You're lucky I did the other one yesterday. Come on then – but really, since when have we been respectable?'


End file.
